Dancing About Architecture
by iateyourheart
Summary: "There will always be a guy, Kurt, because you'll always choose wrong. Start looking in front of your nose." The only constant in Kurt Hummel's love life is Dave Karofsky, and Kurt's pretty sure he will die surrounded by cats and old issues of Vogue.
1. Blaine

Title: Dancing About Architecture

Summary: "There will always be a guy, Kurt, because you'll always choose wrong. Start looking in front of your nose." The only constant in Kurt Hummel's love life is Dave Karofsky, and Kurt's pretty sure he will die surrounded by cats and old issues of Vogue. Kurtofsky.

Author's Note: This started out as a one-shot and then I changed my mind. It happens, it happens. There'll be five chapters more or less depending on my flaky whims. Feedback is loved and appreciated. If you clicked and read at least a sentence, I thank you.

│B L A I N E│

The worst part is he could be doing anything – like sitting in front of the TV with Finn, pretending to be in a Hollywood makeover montage at the Macy's dressing rooms with Mercedes, or listening to his dad complain about the Steelers – it didn't matter. Kurt's eyes utilized every second they were open in order to cloud over with memories. His heartache was merciless; quiet and stillness wasn't a requirement for Kurt to think about Blaine, he only needed to be conscious.

It was as though he were a little bit in love with his own sadness. He'd think about that day the two of them spent together over summer vacation, when Burt and Carol had jetted down to Biloxi to play nickel slots and Finn had been off with Rachel discovering the joys of consistent teen sex. It was overcast. The air was heavy and thick with an impending thunderstorm, and he and Blaine snuggled up on the living room couch. It was the perfect day to watch _Pride and Prejudice_, but they couldn't decide on a Darcy so both Firth and MacFadyen got their due; Blaine let Kurt rewind Firth's lake diving scene ten times, and it poured outside the Hummels' windows when MacFadyen declared he'd been bewitched body and soul. They made out until they were breathless during the closing credits.

Kurt could be in the middle of translating French III conversations, and he would think about Blaine and this day, and he'd want to fucking cry or scream, or throw up all of which would be totally acceptable actions if he hadn't been dumped five months ago.

"_There's this guy in my AP Bio and I…look, Kurt I really care about you, and I hope we can still be friends_. _The worst thing I can think of would be to lose your friendship_."

He'd already done the post-breakup rituals with Rachel and Mercedes; they'd gathered him up off of the floor and told him how fabulous he is, they'd lied through their teeth ("I never liked Blaine/Me neither. He smiles way too much, you can't trust that"), they'd attempted to repair the damage to his heart by singing Beyonce songs into their hairbrushes (everything he owns in a box to the left), and hid all of Blaine's updates from Kurt's Facebook newsfeed. They'd listened patiently as Kurt steered every conversation towards the subject of his now ex, and turned down the wattage on their own happiness when their boyfriends were around. But being the seasoned shoulder to cry on that he is Kurt knew moping over a relationship had a shelf life and he was rapidly approaching irritatingly emo.

So he shut up about it. He thought about that day and Blaine punctuating every kiss with an "I love you", and he bled internally during language lab.

"Who died?"

The question had to be repeated four times before Kurt realized he was being spoken to. Decidedly un-French metal poured out of the headphone speakers around his neck, and Dave Karofsky stared at him eyebrow perfectly arched in puzzlement.

"What?" Kurt removed his own headphones.

Senior year was almost over and this was the first time Dave had bothered to speak to him. Sure, he'd shown up to GSA meetings as per their agreement, but sat quietly with his arms crossed for their duration. And even though the Bully Whips dissolved under Santana's lack of an ulterior motive, Kurt would still catch Dave shadowing him sometimes with eagle eyes trained on their schoolmates, but nothing more than a cursory head nod passed between them.

Now Karofsky was speaking, and nervously raking his fingers through his dark hair.

"God, please tell me no one died, because I'm starting to feel like the world's biggest dick."

"No one's dead," Kurt said.

Dave sighed in relief. "That's good. You still look like hell, though."

"Is there a point to this, David, because I've got work to do over here."

"Dude, you're the only one," Dave snickered. "Even Madame Jenkins is playing _Black Ops_ on her laptop. No one cares what you do."

Kurt gritted his teeth. "I care."

"You're paler than usual. You didn't eat the burritos today, did you? I thought everyone knew to stay far away from the cafeteria on Fiesta Fridays…"

Dave continued to talk, and Kurt continued to think about that day and being so tangled up with Blaine that he didn't know where either one of them began or ended. He ached so much – like some essential part of his body had been snatched away, replaced with a cog made up of knives and razor blades – and as much as Kurt was okay with carrying around this pain (because it was his little bit of red on a grey day), he was exhausted from the lugging.

"I didn't eat a goddamn burrito, Karofsky," he snapped. "I got dumped. I got dumped in between a commercial for _Sonic _and _Gary Martin Hayes & Associates _but not before telling Blaine I wanted to come back as NeNe from _The Real Housewives_ in my next life. Blaine _dumped_ me for someone who's probably hotter, and more talented, and more sexually liberated – I don't know for sure because _perfect_ Brett Thomaston only lets _friends_ view his profile. I am pale because I don't sleep, my daily caloric intake comes from a tub of _Chunky Monkey_, and my life has become entirely about replaying my and Blaine's happiest moments – only now with the bonus of mental editing to make myself cooler so he won't leave me. Breathing in is a fucking chore, and it's also quite possible that my heart is lodged somewhere underneath a size ten and a half _Top-Sider_." Kurt paused to swallow the lump in his throat. "Any other questions?"

When Kurt said he got dumped, he never expected a river of tears or even a gasp of shock from Karofsky. The customary "damn that sucks" would have totally sufficed. What he got was a mocking pout, and a great view of Dave's thumb and forefinger rubbing together.

"Tiny violin?" Kurt said, his voice rising. "Are you _seriously_ giving me tiny violin right now?"

"Are you _seriously_ crying over some butthole right now?" Dave shot back. "Graduation's in what? Less than month? I bet come August you're gonna be in New York or LA, or some other place where there's a sea of dudes in jaunty scarves. Hummel, you'll find someone. And you'll forget all about the small town dingleberry who couldn't handle how amazing you are." Dave's eyes took a sudden interest in his keyboard as he swung his seat back and forth. "Shit's just not worth moping over," he finished quietly.

The cog, though still churning, had lost a blade and slowed its speed. The smile that unfurled across his face may have paled in comparison to the thousand-wattage Kurt was capable of in happier times, but it was genuine. For the first time in five months some of the sting had been taken out of breathing.

"Never thought I'd hear you use the word 'jaunty'."

Dave looked up, grinned back, and slipped his headphones over his ears. "It got stuck in my head during SAT practice," he said. "That one and 'masticate' are my favorites."


	2. Henry

│H E N R Y│

Contrary to popular belief (almost entirely perpetuated by his own mouth), Kurt did not lose his virginity to Blaine. Oh, he wanted to and Blaine wanted to, but Kurt had seventeen years of digesting impossible romantic comedy ideals under his belt. Nothing was ever quite "right". The lighting was off. Or, Blaine failed to gaze up at him through lusty, half-lidded eyes. Or, Burt came home early and had to be talked out of removing Kurt's bedroom door from its hinges. However, they made out a lot, and there was that one time Blaine gave him a handy for all of three minutes before Finn burst through the door to yell about Kurt drinking the last of his _Dr. Pepper_.

So, Kurt arrived for his first semester of undergrad a blushing, but world weary virgin. He wanted romance (Photoshop was no longer a tool for his digital media class, but an avenue to insert himself into all of his favorite love scenes. See: Julia Roberts on the piano in _Pretty Woman_, Diane Lane up against a bathroom stall in _Unfaithful_, Kim Basinger's everything in _9 ½ Weeks_…), but feared it in equal measure. His heart was still battered – black and blue around the edges, though stitched together with optimism – his libido, permanently set in overdrive, and the two were locked in a bloody war.

Libido came out on top during the Battle of the Freshman Mixer; Kurt nursed a cup of spiked punch, and presumably the cute boy in the tight jeans and rolled up sleeved T-shirt giving Kurt eyes from across the room was doing the same. Smiles were exchanged. Then names ("Henry, nice to meet you.") Then bodily fluids.

There were no candles, or fireworks, or nauseatingly cute banter about cold feet. The earth did not shake. Kurt trudged back to his dorm after spending five minutes convincing Henry that he did not need an escort, and felt no different when he woke up in time for Composition 101 the next morning.

But, Kurt did like it. So he continued to do it again, and again, and again…

"You don't have class, right?" Henry tried his best to sound as if he'd just opened his eyes, but there'd been hands on Kurt's back and around Kurt's waist at least eight times before a sentence had been uttered.

"Um, actually I've got a French lab…"

"I thought your lab was on Thursdays?"

Kurt narrowed his eyes, and kept his back turned. "I'm getting a jump on it."

"Why don't you stay? I've got bacon, and we can run out and grab some coffee."

Kurt dodged Henry's snaking arms, rolling out of bed and onto his feet. "Raincheck? I've really gotta get going."

"Yeah, whatever."

"I've already fallen behind on my labs. You know how in high school you can barely pay attention, and everything just comes so easy? Would you believe that study method doesn't work in college…?"

"You always do this," Henry said, running a hand through his tousled hair.

Kurt pointedly ignored that. "Have you seen my pants?"

"I don't think you should come over anymore." Henry gave a heavy sigh. "Just go, man."

"Henry, I'm totally serious about the pants." Frantically, Kurt tossed around piles of dirty clothes. "What the hell did you do with them? And why the hell haven't you washed your clothes? Is there a quarter shortage I don't know about."

"I'm waiting on Tony the Laundry Gnome to come and do them, and I'm totally serious about you getting the _fuck_ out of my room."

When Henry slammed the door on Kurt, effectively leaving him standing in the middle of Barrett House in his boxers, Kurt was absolutely positive that this situation couldn't get worse.

"Your legs are hairier than I thought they would be."

But, there was Dave Karofsky leaning against the wall with a smile on his lips and a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

Kurt blinked mouth agape and moved his hands to the front of his shorts. "What are you doing here?"

"Hockey." Dave shrugged. "And learning shit in between. You?"

"I'm undeclared, though I'll probably end up going with theatre. I have to reconcile my future employment being at places with 'Little' in the title before I finalize that decision. In between that, watching my dignity slowly float away."

"I never thought I'd see you at State, Hummel. I kinda figured you'd go for NYU or something."

Kurt nodded. "So did, I. As a matter of fact, I got into NYU, but out of state tuition on a mechanic's salary is a killer of dreams."

"That sucks."

"It _really_ does."

"So…" Dave began, straightening himself up, "my room's a few doors down – can I interest you in some pants?"

"Absolutely." As he trudged behind Karofsky, Kurt added, "The offer of pants should've been the first thing out of your mouth."

"I know," Dave said, "but I was trying to wait for it to stop being funny. It hasn't stopped by the way; I just wanted to put you out of your misery."

**xx**

"He wanted to cuddle like all of the time…"

Dave leaned forward in his computer chair while balancing a humongous bowl of _Frosted Flakes_ on his lap. "Dude sounds like a real asshole," he said, slurping milk off of his spoon.

"This was not a cuddling relationship, David." Kurt huffed into his own bowl of cereal.

"Some people like cuddling."

"Some people like Ke$ha. I'm not one of those people, so what's your point?"

Dave tilted his bowl up to his mouth and used the collar of his shirt as a napkin when he'd finished. "My point? This guy obviously liked you, and you're being a dick about it."

"_Excuse_ you – I was clear right from the start that our thing was orgasms only."

"Yeah, but it stopped being about that for him."

Kurt hard swallowed the cereal, eyes narrowing. "And how is that my fault exactly?"

Dave loudly snickered. "It's not your fault what's his face…"

"Henry," Kurt supplied without missing a beat.

"…got his feelings hurt, but you could've not been a dick. That's all I'm saying." He shrugged. "You should've told him you didn't want to get serious."

"I didn't have to!" Kurt glared. "Every encounter we ever had taking place without sunlight did it for me."

Dave chuckled, "And that's why you have no pants." Eyeing the baggy sweats on Kurt's frame, he said, "Feel free to keep those."

Kurt gave him a withering look. "You're a prince."


	3. Michael

Author's Note: Thank you guys so much! I'm glad you all are enjoying this so far.

* * *

><p>│M I C H A E L│<p>

"Should I take this as a break up sign?"

"Probably."

Kurt expected too much, and this had always been a problem.

Seven months out of his sixth year of being were spent begging for a hot pink Barbie Power Wheels and Kurt expected to have one poking out from underneath the Christmas tree like a garish beacon of childhood happiness and wonder.

("We just couldn't afford it this year, but I think you'll love this football if you'd give it a chance.")

A letter was penned to Anna Wintour in the sprawling, delicate hand of a ten-year-old detailing why his life would suck less if she adopted him. Kurt waited every evening at the end of the driveway for the limo full of impeccably dressed people he expected to pull up to the curb on a small town extraction mission

("Not even a lousy fan club postcard…this is why Vogue France is better.")

Meticulous plots were put into action to win the affections of the dreamy varsity quarterback. Schemes and dreamy boy's straightness were not expected to be a problem, because if Julia Roberts and Meg Ryan had taught him anything, it was that these morally questionable actions will totally be laughed about on your twentieth wedding anniversary.

("Dude…could you just, not?")

Quietly and achingly he pined away for the confident, sage, beautiful boy who waltzed into his life like the last gay unicorn. Enduring months of all night gab sessions ("the fall/winter Burberry collection was _such_ a letdown this year"/ "ugh, I _know_!"), of supportive hand-holding during romantic crises ("I've got hot fudge sundaes and Tony Curtis in _Spartacus_. You'll never get misty eyed over the sight of a neatly folded sweater ever again, I swear"), of vegging out in front of trash TV, and when Kurt finally fought his way out of the friend zone red of tooth and claw, he expected their embodiment of teen dream puppy love to evolve into a Vermont wedding, white picket fences, weekends antiquing, and 2.5 adopted Korean kids.

("It's my final performance with The Warblers, and I'd love for you to be there. Brett can save you a seat…")

And at twenty-two, Kurt Hummel expected to be living the life of a starving artist in New York. Tragically hip – he'd wait tables, and chain smoke, and drink Steel Reserve for the irony, and he'd live in a box in the Bronx with Rachel. They'd eat Ramen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, kill cockroaches without flinching, and they'd stay up late bitching about auditions while marathoning Streisand films on _Netflix_.

But, Kurt never left Ohio. His bachelors in theatre turned into a lucrative career at _Express_ (Plus side: free reign to be a dick. Downside: the general public also enjoyed the same luxury.), and the roommate he got to share all of his secrets with wore gym shorts _everywhere_, scratched his nuts in public, and wouldn't touch food that didn't need to be dipped in some sort of dressing.

There were still cockroaches from time to time. And Kurt still couldn't handle them without screaming.

"It's almost beautiful," Dave said while cocking his head to the side, "the way flames are flickering off of the 'C'."

From the second story of three bedroom house they rented, Kurt and Dave crowded the window in order to fully appreciate the gift Kurt's now ex, Michael, left on the lawn. Using the bits of Kurt's wardrobe he kept in the closet, Michael had taken the time to spell

F U C K Y O U

and then went the extra mile by setting it on fire.

"I've always dug that orangey glow."

"I'm going to fucking kill him," Kurt said. Slamming the blinds shut, he added, "I'm going to make him wish he'd never seen _Waiting to Exhale_."

Dave grinned. "I'm going to get the fire extinguisher, and when I get back, you can tell me what happened."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

Dave blinked. "Come again?"

"I'm serious." Kurt rolled his eyes. "I just wanna plop down on the couch, and drink everything in this house with alcohol content. After I've given my Comme des Garcons shoes the proper burial, of course; do you have any idea how long it took me to find those on Ebay?"

"Uh…the weird ones with the toes painted on?"

"Yes! I'm talking months of stalking, and then twenty-three hours of no sleep just to bid! This is of course not counting the retail induced emotional trauma I had to endure in order to get the money, and oh my _god_, I am going to eat his face off." Kurt pulled at the ends of his hair. "I just…I can't talk right now."

Dave stood quietly for a moment drumming his fingers against his chin. "Did you hear about all of those dead fish they found in the Mississippi River?"

"…What?"

"My grandma sent me an article about a newborn with backwards eyes, and I saw on the news yesterday that a tiger baby with two heads was born at the Columbus Zoo. Between this and you not wanting to discuss your romantic problems, I think I should build a bunker and wait for Jesus."

"Shut up," Kurt said as he pushed past on his way out the door. "Where's the fire extinguisher? We do have a fire extinguisher, right?"

"What happened?" Dave trailed behind, following Kurt from kitchen cabinet to kitchen cabinet.

"Nothing happened."

"Your clothes are on fire."

Kurt shot him a look. "What an astute observation." With a frustrated growl he grabbed a _Big Gulp_ cup and turned on the tap. "We need a goddamn extinguisher."

Dave leaned against the counter, his arms folded over his chest. "I get having a type, but dude you've really gotta stop chasing after over dramatic queens."

"I do not have a type!"

"Sure." Dave sarcastically nodded. "Put the cup down, genius, I'll use the hose."

"What makes you think I have a type?" Kurt asked as he followed Dave out the front door.

"All of these guys are…" Dave paused, "sometimes I wonder if you're interested in dating or in masturbation."

"I've dated plenty of different kinds of guys!"

"Sure."

"Why am I even listening to you?" Kurt glared. "When's the last time you had a night that didn't involve the amateur video section on _redtube_?"

"I date," Dave said.

"Really? Who are these fine, young gentlemen that you're spending quality time with?"

Dave narrowed his eyes and dragged the hose back and forth over the smoking pile. "I haven't found anyone special, so I don't bring anyone around. My type may be anything with a pulse that likes me back, but he's still got to be able to kick back with a beer, he's got to be in the mood for films that consist of nothing but shit blowing up for two hours every once in a while, he's got to have a great sense of humor because even though my parents have been way cooler about this gay thing than I ever imagined they'd be – that first boyfriend dinner with them is going to be a special kind of awkward that will definitely need to be laughed at. And most importantly, he's got to not have the emotional maturity of a dish rag."

"He was pissed because I told him movie night was kinda our thing," Kurt said and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "There was a bitch session of monumental proportions – lots of whining, it's unimportant, anyway I'm almost a hundred percent positive that 'fuck' is now burned into our grass because I wanted to make you watch _Mamma Mia_."

"Dish rag," Dave said.

"Pretty much." Kurt sighed.

"I can't believe you're gonna make me watch James Bond sing for two hours."

"It's a reasonable trade off for _Con Air_ last week."

"You liked _Con Air_." Dousing the last of the flames, Dave put his thumb over the mouth of the house and let a jet stream of water shoot across the lawn and onto the street.

Kurt smiled. "'Like' is not possible when speaking of film in the Nic Cage oeuvre, David."


	4. Drought

│D R O U G H T│

An Interlude

"No man is an island, but you see I've been shipwrecked for six months…"

"…What?"

"Six, _long_ months. Now, I may not have Tom Hanks' _Castaway_ scraggly beard and crazy eyes, but I do have a Wilson." Kurt held up his right hand, wiggling his fingers. "Meet Wilson."

"Kurt, could you not…"

"…I'm sorry, I don't understand…"

"It's like this, Sunshine – that guy, right there – the one you're blocking access to in order to make 'do-me' faces at under this horrible lighting, that guy is my wingman." Kurt tipped his tequila sunrise in Dave's direction only to receive a deeply set frown in response. "You're aces, David." Swinging the focus back to the handsome blonde occupying the chair across from Karofsky, Kurt gave the man a decidedly slow onceover that ended in a rather unimpressed pursing of his lips. "You are hindering my rescue mission. Go park your ass elsewhere."

Despite Dave's protests, cute (but honestly not _that_ cute, Kurt didn't know what the hell Dave was thinking) guy disappeared back into the crowd after throwing his hands up in defeat.

Kurt was on a mission. His tank was full of liquor and corn nuts, his confidence was out of control (he'd never had a more perfect hair day, the jeans were sinfully snug, his harrowing struggle with a whitehead pimple had come to a gross end two weeks prior), and he was single for the first time in years. Single as in a newly appointed moderator for the internets largest _Big Brother_ forum. Single as in giving serious consideration to taking up knitting ("I'm going to start on everyone's Christmas scarves right now. Should they be holiday festive or winter multipurpose?") Single as in he bought a gerbil.

Single. As. Fuck.

"What the hell is your problem?"

Kurt was perhaps so focused on the daunting task of finding his soulmate during _Steers & Queers_' 80's Night that he didn't notice the glances exchanged between Dave and Rachel. The lighting was perhaps so dim (and the club so smoky) that Kurt didn't notice the flare of Dave's nostrils, or the beet-red color his face had taken on, or the way he tight fisted his PBR.

"Okay, I'm thinking the shaggy-haired one by the bar." Kurt casually sipped his drink, and missed Rachel's wide-eyes. "He's a little twinky, but we've all gotta go there sometime, amirite?"

The silence on Dave's end was filled with Erasure's "A Little Respect" blaring over the club's sound system, and in one swift motion Karofsky was on his feet.

"Go fuck yourself."

Kurt practically did a double take. "Is there an issue, David?" he asked, voice dripping with condescension.

"Yeah, I was in the middle of a conversation…"

"It couldn't have been very interesting. He didn't look interesting."

Dave's eyes narrowed. "I'm not your stand in boyfriend."

"Of course you're not." The snicker that came out of Kurt's mouth reached a depth of nastiness he'd not seen since his sophomore year at McKinley. "Why would I consider you boyfriend material?"

That sentence hung in the ether between them. Kurt regretted it the second it left his tongue.

"Just so you know, the 'go fuck yourself' still stands, but I'm going to leave right now, before we aren't friends anymore."

Mouth agape, Kurt watched Dave's back until it was engulfed in dance floor fog, and turned to Rachel. "Wow, someone has their rude hat on tonight."

After a moment she smiled wanly. "Well, can you really blame him?"

"Oh, what?" he scoffed. "That guy? Dave can do better than that guy, c'mon. I did him a favor."

"He doesn't see it that way."

"I just saved him from the shame walk, and one awkward date at _Chili's_ – he should be thanking me." Kurt cast a glance over his shoulder. "He's not even Dave's type."

"What's his type?"

"…I dunno, but it's definitely not _that_ guy."

"But, you don't know that guy."

"I don't have to, Rachel! I know David, and I have a sense for these things," he told her haughtily. "Honestly, I wanted to tell you, you and Finn were gonna go belly up post high school, but I didn't. I kept that one to myself, because even though my sense is never wrong I try not to use it to crush happiness…"

"I thank you," she dryly replied.

"…And that guy – let me tell you, I got some pretty strong vibes. Like he and Dave wouldn't mesh well, you know?" Kurt loudly sipped up the last of his drink. "Also, he smelled like _CK One_ and I can't allow Dave to be with someone that outdated."

"Oh, honey…" Rachel began, covering Kurt's hands with her own, "why did we come here tonight?"

Kurt beamed. "To show you a time so fabulous that you'll consider taking me back to New York with you out of sheer gratitude."

"You're welcome to stowaway any time." She smiled.

"I'm going to take you up on that."

"Why else are we here?"

He sighed heavily. "To end my loneliness."

"Kurt, we've been friends for a long time now, and as you know I have a strict 'honesty is the best policy' code with my loved ones provided they're not standing in the way of something I really want – which is why I now have to be honest with you." Rachel gave his hands a gentle squeeze. "There's always going to be some guy, Kurt because you're always going to choose wrong. You have to start looking in front of your nose."

"Rach," he said pulling his hands away. "Sweetie, I adore you, but that time I felt your boobs was just a curiosity thing."

Rolling her eyes, Rachel put her hand in the mess of product on the top of Kurt's head and turned it sharply towards the bar.

_That_ guy had his head thrown back in laughter, and Dave seemed far too smiley for Kurt's liking, and there was a weird bottoming out feeling in the pit of Kurt's stomach that he didn't even want to think about comprehending.

"Start looking there," Rachel said.

"We're just friends."

"He made a complete list of live streams of Fashion Week for you."

"Because he's my buddy."

"I've seen you mix his dipping sauces."

"Jalapeno and honey mustard sounds disgusting in theory, but it actually has a pleasant kick to it – and I know what you're doing, and you are _wrong_. That is not a loving gesture. He has the table manners of a baby howler monkey, premixing for him makes the meal smoother. If I could convert him to sauceless wings, I'd be the happiest man in the world. All of that is just in service of a friend."

Rachel grinned. "You talk about him all the time."

"We live together and he's mildly entertaining." Kurt shrugged. "Tuck your inner Emma Woodhouse back in her hole; there are no heart doodles with Dave Karofsky's name in the middle of them in my diary. See, I'm going home to watch my _Sex and the City_ DVDs, and _David_ is going to _that_ guy's place to have some _actual_ sex and it won't bother me because David's friend zone status is threat-level orange."

"Whatever you say, Kurt," she singsonged.

"I'm not going to think about him at all," he told her sternly. "Dave won't even cross my mind until he shows up the next day. Then we'll talk about all the sex he had, and it won't bother me."

"Mmhmm."

"We'll talk about it all day!" Kurt shouted. "Because we're _friends_, Rachel."

"Best friends."

"Damn straight! And I'm going to high-five the shit out of him over the sex that does not bother me, because that's what bro's do." Kurt turned his head just in time to catch Dave with his hands around _that _guy's waist, and _that_ guy talking directly into Dave's ear.

Kurt's stomach ached so badly. "Now, get your cute ass over to that bar and don't come back unless you've got shots in hand."

**xx**

Kurt did not stay up all night waiting for Dave – technically. He just happened to be in the mood to watch TV downstairs, and the booze coursing through his veins just happened to be playing tricks on his eyes, so he thought the message indicator on his phone was blinking every ten minutes and he had to check it. He loved sleeping on the couch, and had nothing but fondness for the way his face stuck to the leather when he finally awoke at noon.

Kurt just happened to be missing his favorite pair of sweats, so he stopped in Dave's room to see if their laundry had been mixed up again. He didn't care that Dave still wasn't home (or that Dave hadn't bothered to call, or text.)

Not at all. Not one bit. But, Kurt brought the phone into the bathroom anyway. If Dave (or _anyone_, really) tried to get in touch, he wanted to be available.


	5. Cole

│C O L E│

"I have this idea for a musical – now, it's still in its rough stages, but do you want to hear it?"

A smile. "Do I have a choice in the matter?"

A curious tilt of the head, and a tap of the index finger to the chin. "Nope. None whatsoever."

A laugh.

"Okay, so it's called _The Loneliest Boy_ – tentative title, of course."

"Of course."

"And it's about a dapper, young gentleman in the Midwest who is woefully unlucky in love. I mean, not just the typical 'gee whiz I wish I could stop dating all the wrong people' unlucky, but the 'why is a higher power always shitting on me' kind of unlucky. See, he's dated some incredible people…" A pause, "present company included…"

"Aww, thanks."

"But he never quite got it right. Then one night he realized the reason why, and that it'd been staring him in the face for years. It'd been belching the alphabet, and laughing _way_ too hard at Daniel Tosh – Jesus Christ, it wouldn't even read a book unless there were dragons in it." A shake of the head. "Anyway, the reason why the boy failed so incredibly, so _spectacularly_ hard at relationships is because he's in love with his best friend."

"Since he's got that whole 'higher power shitting on him' thing, the boy realizes how he feels as soon as his bff starts dating someone else." Kurt gave a heavy sigh, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "The show ends with the boy dead, surrounded by fifty cats and old issues of _Vogue_. Taylor Swift would do the score."

"It needs work."

Kurt side-eyed the man to his left, fighting the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. "I said it was in the rough stage. Oh, and for the revelation scene, I'm seeing a fountain and maybe some pyrotechnics."

"Did you ever think about telling him?"

A million different times and a million different ways Kurt had thought about telling him, and mostly on nights like this one. When the conversation hit all of the natural twists and turns never stopping once for an awkward pause. When Kurt laughed a little too hard. When he'd forget to just enjoy the company, and let his mind lighten Cole's black hair and dark eyes (make him stockier, and gruff, and uncouth, and less mouthy.)

Kurt thought about telling him – hell, it was all he _could_ think about after that disastrous night out with Rachel nearly two years ago. For weeks they'd merely existed next to each other; Dave's presence in Kurt's life was the slam of a door, or _Sportscenter_ blaring from the living room TV. Dave stayed out a lot, and his face lit up at every ring and every beep of his phone. He started wearing cologne. He started ironing his fucking clothes.

And Kurt tried his hand at outwardly expressing the ever widening hole beneath his chest by taking minimal showers, and growing facial hair that hinted at inner turmoil, but not exfoliating made him feel too gross to function and the beard came in patchy.

Then one evening, Dave walked in to find Kurt curled up on the couch and mindlessly staring at _E!'_s _Fashion Police_. Their eyes locked; Kurt pointedly ignored the sound of _that_ car driving off into the distance while Dave folded his arms over his chest.

"_You're a real fucking dick sometimes_, _you know that_?"

"_Yup_."

"…_So, who's the worst dressed this year_?"

Kurt made a place for Dave on the couch, and Dave jokingly groaned about being made to watch Joan Rivers ("She's being kept alive by Satan."/ "She's a national treasure, David! How dare you!"/ "She's a hundred and seventy-five, Kurt. That's demonry.") They were going back to the way they'd always been, maybe that's the way the way they were meant to be. Certainly there is a level of intimacy in being privy to the _Nacho Bell Grande_ related gas of one another that can't be touched. There's something to be said about a willingness to pick up dirty laundry and dishes without a word of complaint, but affection didn't scream true love. Sure, Kurt always grabbed those disgusting _Hungry Man_ dinners for Dave when it was his turn to make a grocery run. Sure, Kurt had let Dave excitedly explain the "Miracle on Ice" one too many times even though Kurt didn't particularly understand the big deal about Russians being great at hockey. Sure, he did these things, but maybe they didn't mean much. Maybe he was just lonely.

(Sure, he loved the way Dave's whole face lit up when he told that dumb hockey story. He loved that every time, without fail, Dave would attempt to get him to try frozen beer battered chicken. He loved that Dave would sit with rapt attention whenever he put on _Funny Girl_, but would claim to be "growing a vagina" due to musicals. He loved that Dave took 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' very seriously. He loved Dave's mock irritation at all attempts to dress him. He loved the way Dave listened – quietly, staring directly into his eyes – and he loved how Dave never judged, but gave his opinion honestly. He loved…he loved…he loved…he loved…)

And Kurt thought about telling him.

Kurt thought about telling him when he learned that _that _guy had an actual name (ugh, _Reed_). When Reed started coming over for dinner, and occasionally sitting in on Tuesday night movies – Kurt threw diva shit fits, argued with Dave about not liking his boyfriend, and thought about telling him.

When his coworker, Mei, offered to set him up on a blind date, Kurt first thought about running into traffic, and then he thought about telling Dave. But, Dave came home that night excited because Reed wanted them to move in together.

Cole was the perfect blind date. He was handsome. He was smart. He was a Patti LuPone super fan. Kurt got drunk on tequila and told him everything he couldn't tell Dave.

They became great friends.

"I think you should tell him," Cole said as he stopped to light his cigarette.

"He's moving in two weeks." Kurt sighed.

Cole shrugged. "All the more reason to get it off your chest."

"You don't think that's supremely shitty? 'I know you're happy and all, but I'm going to burden you with my unrequited love bullshit and make the distance between us as awkward as humanly possible'."

"Even if David doesn't feel the same way, it never hurts to tell someone you love them." Cole flicked ash onto the sidewalk, and whipped his hair out of his eyes.

"You sure about that?" Kurt let out a humorless laugh. "Because I'm seeing hurt pride."

* * *

><p>"You never realize just how much crap you actually have until you have to move it all." Dave grumbled from his position on the bedroom floor. He was surrounded by packing paper, bubble wrap, and boxes – he gazed up at Kurt with an expression of adorable frustration, and flopped back down into the middle of his mess. "Fuck it. I'll do it tomorrow."<p>

Kurt leaned against the door frame, and felt his heart clench. On the way home, he'd had a speech prepared that rivaled giant fountains and pyrotechnics. It had loads of flowery language due to all of the maudlin poetry he blogged whilst attempting to grow a beard ("You have roots right under my ribcage, David. You're twisted up in everything that makes me, me."), it ended in a flourish of heavy breathing, and misty-eyed I love you's.

"How was your date?"

Kurt briefly shut his eyes. "I don't wanna talk about it."

Dave shot straight up. "What? I thought you liked this guy. Did he do something creepy? Do I have to hit him?"

"No, he's great."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I don't wanna talk about my love life with you, David!" Kurt snapped.

Dave narrowed his eyes. "That's funny coming from a dude who's in love with the sound of his own voice."

Kurt marched across the room, kicked a box into the wall, and forgot everything flowery.

"What the fuck?" Dave shouted as he scrambled to his feet. Chest heaving, and face reddening with anger, he squared off with his best friend. "You know what? I've gotten really sick of your shitty moods lately. I'm glad I'm leaving! It'll be nice to not live with a goddamn psycho!"

"Fuck you!" Kurt yelled back, and shoved Dave's shoulder. "For Christ's sake, his name is Reed, David! _Reed_! He sounds like a character in _St. Elmo_'_s Fire_!"

"Yeah? Well, he's been nothing but fucking nice to you even though you've done nothing to deserve it!"

Kurt threw his hands up. "Oh, well _goood _for him! I don't care. I don't like him. As a matter of fact, I hate his face. If a genie came along today and granted me three wishes, each of them would be death to Reed. I hate him! And I hate that you're moving! I don't want you to move!" He paused, pulling his lips in tight. "Don't move," he said.

"What?" Dave swallowed.

"I don't wanna talk about love with you anymore. I'm so tired of talking, and I just wanna _be_ – I just wanna be in love with you. I'm in love with you," Kurt breathed. "Don't move because I'm in love with you."

Dave let his mouth open and close, and then he put a finger up, shook his head, and walked out of the room.

Kurt rapidly sniffed back tears. He wouldn't let himself cry. Not here, in Dave's room, standing in the middle of goddamn bubble wrap and cardboard. He'd hold his head high, he'd make his feet move, and he'd crumple in a heap on his own floor and tell Cole that he gives the worst advice.

"How long?"

Kurt had been busy wiping at his face with the sleeve of his shirt and trying not to die, so he didn't notice Dave standing in the doorway.

"What?" he sniffed.

"How long have you been in love with me?" Dave asked, folding his arms over his chest.

"I dunno." Kurt shrugged pathetically. "A while, I think. I didn't realize until two years ago."

"And you're telling me now?"

"Seemed as good a time as any."

"Half of my shit's packed up!"

Kurt wiped at his eyes again, and Dave had closed the gap between them.

"You're taking everything back out again."

"…What?" Kurt couldn't hear over the pounding of his heart, and he couldn't focus because Dave's feet kept inching closer to his own.

"You. Are. Putting. My. Stuff. Back. Fancy." Dave wrapped his fingers around the base of Kurt's neck, and Kurt stopped breathing.

"My timing is the _worst_." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his head tilted slightly in anticipation.

Dave grinned. "Stop talking."

Their mouths met somewhere in the middle.


	6. David

│D A V I D│

(an epilogue)

Kurt loved saying his name. He said it as often as he could; loudly – full of piss and vinegar, in between fits of laughter, and he moaned it – guttural, with his head thrown back and his eyes screwed shut. Kurt marveled at the way his tongue tripped up to the roof of his mouth on the "DAY" before his front teeth and bottom lip converged on the "VEH", and gently tapped up again resting softly on the "ID".

He would never get tired of saying that name.

David. David. David…

"_David_," Kurt began and puffed out his cheeks, "I think I'm gonna vomit."

Dave didn't take his eyes off of the TV. "You want me to grab a bucket?"

Kurt huffed. "I'm serious."

"So am I. Puke on the back of my head is a deal breaker."

Frowning, Kurt thumped his ear. "I'm having a legitimate crisis of confidence here – 'I'll get you a bucket' is not in any way soothing."

Laughing softly, Dave tightened his arms around Kurt's middle. "And what would you like me to say?" he asked in earnest.

"You could start with, 'Sweetie-pie, you are being ridiculous'."

"Sweetie-pie?"

"I'm testing pet names. We're gonna scratch that one off the list."

"Okay," Dave said. With a slight groan he pulled himself up from his supremely comfortable spot on Kurt's stomach and crawled up towards the bed's headboard settling in next to his boyfriend. "Why do you feel as though you're going to spew, Light-of-my-life/Fire-of-my-loins?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, pointing to the clock on the nightstand. "In five hours we're going to dinner with your parents..."

"You've had plenty of dinners with my parents."

"This is different! This is official boyfriend dinner. What if they don't like me?"

"Are you kidding? I mean, I know my dad was a little awkward the first time we started hanging out, but he's pretty much like that in general. Dude, they love you – my mom wishes she gave birth to you instead of me; she told me so in that weird 'joking, but not really joking' kind of way after you went Black Friday shopping with her."

"Yeah, but that's when I was just your friend," Kurt said. His eyes self-consciously cast down, he picked at a stray thread on the comforter. "Kurt the Boyfriend is an entirely different animal, and there's always a chance that they'll think I'm not good enough for you." He sighed heavily. "Ugh, I know I'm being stupid – you can say it."

"You're being a dumbass," Dave said casually.

"I said you could say 'stupid'." Kurt glared.

"No, really." Dave shook his head. "Dumbass all the way. Never in a _million_ years could you _not_ be good enough. You had two years of loving me, but Fancy, I had you beat by mile. All the crap I put you through in high school…" he hesitated, and took a deep breath, "…it tears me up knowing I'm the cause of some of your worst memories just because I couldn't deal with who I am, and the way you make me feel. I was lucky enough to have your friendship, and now I'm lucky because I get to tell you all of the mushy shit that floats through my head when I look at you. And, I get to see you naked."

Kurt laughed, a blush spreading out against his cheeks.

"I love you." Dave smiled. "My parents love you. We're gonna eat pot roast in five hours, and then we're gonna come home and laugh about it, and it's gonna be okay."

"You could've just said that from the beginning instead of that bucket crack," Kurt said as he placed his head on Dave's shoulder.

"I know."

"Okay, this is the last part of my crisis, I swear. Were your folks big fans of Reed?"

"Hard to say – they never met him."

Kurt bolted upright, and smiled his thousand-watt smile. "Crisis successfully averted, David," he said and reveled in the way that name tripped off of his tongue.

**xx**

_"I have a friend, jazz musician...trumpet player, really terrific. And I go and hear him jam every month or so and he plays this piece I love, an old Chet Baker song. And he blows the same notes every time and every time it sounds so different. And we had drinks one night...when I used to drink...and I tried to tell him how that song made me feel, how the music made me feel, how his playing made me feel. And he just kept shakin' his head and he said "Joan, you can't talk about music! Talking about music is like dancing about architecture," and I just said, "Well fine! Gonna get all philosophical on me, it's just as pointless as talking about a lot of things, love for instance." And my friend laughed and he said, "Definitely, most definitely, talking about love is like dancing about architecture." So I don't know, he might be right...but it ain't gonna stop me from trying_."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: I seriously can't thank you guy's enough for the love you've given to my little dog-and-pony show. You've been absolutely amazing! Thank you so much for readingreviewing/alerting.


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